


we can make it so divine

by tamquams



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Minor Internalized Homophobia, Ronan Compliant Language, canon compliant probably but don't quote me on it, i just love them your honor, late night drives and bed sharing and pining, one almost car crash, st. agnes sleepovers because one of pynch's love languages is quality time, takes place vaguely during bllb because that's the superior book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27260989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: The thing about Ronan Lynch is that nobody understands why he does the things that he does, least of all Ronan Lynch.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 30
Kudos: 203





	we can make it so divine

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! not much to say about this except that i wrote it while listening to ribs by lorde on repeat. yeah, that's where i'm at emotionally these days. hope you like it ♡

The thing about Ronan Lynch is that nobody understands why he does the things that he does, least of all Ronan Lynch.

He’s been coming to Adam’s apartment every couple of nights for a few months now. In the beginning, Adam asked a lot of questions. _What are you doing here? Are you okay? Do you need something?_ Now, he hardly looks up when Ronan walks in. The apartment door is almost perpetually unlocked, because Ronan comes and goes at all hours of the day or night. He almost asks Adam about it. _Does this mean something?_ he wonders, but he doesn’t say anything. Some things are better left unspoken; it’s harder to ruin something if you aren’t sure that it exists in the first place.

It’s late when Ronan saunters through the door. Not late enough for Adam to be asleep, but late. Adam surprises him by looking up from his desk when the door opens, greeting him. “Hey,” he says, which must mean he’s having a bad night. He only allows himself to be distracted when he really needs a distraction. “What’s up?”

Ronan narrows his eyes, but doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Instead, he shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, throwing himself down on Parrish’s sucky mattress. “Just thought I’d take a break from my usual juvenile delinquency. Ruin your night for a little while.” It’s easier to act like Adam hates him and be proven right than it is to act like Adam likes him and be proven wrong. “What nerd shit are you doing right now? I need context if I’m gonna mock you properly.”

He’s expecting an eye-roll, a long-suffering sigh, maybe, but instead Adam dog-ears the page he’s on and closes the book he’s reading. It’s a paperback copy of _1984_ , beaten to hell and back. Obviously a thrift store purchase. Judging by the open notebook in front of him and the ink smudged on his hand, he’s working on a literature assignment. Or, he was. Now he’s staring at Ronan expectantly, and Ronan realizes that while he’s been observing, he missed Adam speaking. He forces himself to look away from Adam’s hand, which is gripping a blue pen tensely, and meets Adam’s eye.

“Huh?”

Adam does roll his eyes then, but it’s almost fond. Almost. “I _said_ , I’m going to commit a crime if I have to read one more page of this god damn book tonight.” He drums his fingers against the torn cover and Ronan hones in on the gesture, then forces his gaze back to Adam’s face. Adam smirks like he knows exactly what Ronan is thinking, but the amusement is at least partially forced; it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“I’d like to see that,” says Ronan cheerfully, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his fist. “So, you’re looking for a distraction? Hmmmm.” He hums thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I suppose I can provide that.”

“Good,” Adam says. “It’s about time _you_ entertain _me_ for once.”

Ronan scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ that for all the time you spend in my apartment, watching me do menial tasks, you could stand to provide me with some entertainment every now and again.” In Adam’s accent, the word _provide_ becomes _pruh-vahhhhhd._ It shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. 

Ronan flushes cotton candy pink, grinding his jaw. “Fuck you,” he says, but he lacks conviction. He pushes himself upright and pulls the keyring from the front pocket of his skinny jeans. Twirls it around his index finger. “Let’s go.”

Immediately, Adam balks. “Oh, I don’t know—”

“Parrish,” Ronan interrupts warningly. “You want me to distract you, you gotta let me do it _my_ way.” When Adam continues to hesitate, Ronan adds, “I haven’t been drinking. I’m not gonna crash my car. Come on.”

Adam frowns, staring at a point over Ronan’s shoulder. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he mutters, but he doesn’t elaborate any further. Instead he stands and grabs the jacket that’s slung over the back of his desk chair. It’s only early autumn, but the last few evenings have been abnormally cold. Fucking climate change. They exit the apartment single-file, Ronan stomping, Adam following behind silently. He stops to lock the door behind him and then descends the stairs two steps at a time to catch up to Ronan.

The BMW is parked haphazardly across three-and-a-half spaces, not that it matters at this hour. The only other car in the lot is Parrish’s shitbox, held together by duct tape and positive thinking. Ronan slides into the driver’s seat of his car like it’s the most natural thing in the world, because it is, and Adam is only slightly less confident as he climbs in beside him. Adam clicks his seatbelt into place as the engine rumbles to life, and then glares at Ronan until Ronan belts himself in as well. And then they’re off.

Ronan doesn’t bother asking if Adam wants to go anywhere specific. When asked his opinion on something inconsequential, like _where do you want to eat?_ or _what do you wanna do this afternoon?_ , Adam always gets violently indecisive. Ronan doesn’t feel like having that argument, so he just turns down streets at random, running stop signs just to hear Adam sigh disappointedly from the passenger seat. Since Adam isn’t talking, that small, defeated exhale is the only evidence that he’s even in the vehicle since Ronan isn’t looking directly at him.

Ronan does look at him once, though. He can’t help himself; Adam Parrish is a slow-motion car wreck. He’s beautiful and he’s tragic and you can’t look at him but you can’t look away, either. He smells like gasoline and the scent permeates the air inside the Beemer, tying the entire analogy together quite nicely. Ronan looks at him and Adam’s already looking back, his elegant features unreadable. He looks like he’s been watching Ronan for a long time, maybe the entire drive. Again, like back at St. Agnes, he’s got this expectant glint in his eyes. He’s waiting for Ronan to do something, to say something, but what exactly he wants remains a mystery. For a moment, Ronan entertains the thought that Adam is waiting for Ronan to confess his feelings, or maybe even to kiss him. And then suddenly a car horn blares from somewhere far too close for comfort, and the moment is shattered.

“You ran a red light,” says Adam hoarsely. Ronan can’t be sure, but he thinks that Adam’s slouching back in his seat, looking out the side window. “You’re a really bad driver, you know.”

Ronan makes a sharp right turn, completely neglecting his turn signal. “Way to hit me where it hurts,” he scoffs, letting go of the wheel for a moment to bring a hand to his chest in a display of mock offence. The Beemer veers into the other lane just as another car turns onto the street ahead of them, and Adam reaches out to steady the steering wheel at the exact same time that Ronan grabs for it. The result is Ronan’s hand resting on the wheel, tight-knuckled, with Adam’s hand firmly on top of it. The headlights of the approaching car blind Ronan for a moment, and it doesn’t matter that they’re in the wrong lane and moments away from certain death because _Adam’s hand is touching his_ and it’s warm and calloused and absolutely everything Ronan has ever imagined.

Until Adam swears loudly, jerking the wheel to the right as hard as he can to correct the Beemer’s trajectory. They miss the other car by mere inches, and it isn’t until the tail lights fade in the rearview mirror that Ronan realizes he almost just totaled his car — and almost killed himself and Parrish.

Parrish, who is still gripping both Ronan’s hand and the steering wheel. “The fuck, Lynch?” he spits, breathless. His eyes are wide and he’s panting through his open mouth, but his hand is steady where it holds tightly to Ronan’s. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Good question. Ronan supposes he should be more shaken after such a close call, but he’s too worried about Adam freaking out to properly freak out himself. He inhales deeply and then shakes his head, blinking at the darkness beyond the windshield. “Fuck, sorry,” he says quietly. “I — I don’t know what happened. I just zoned out for a second. Sorry. _Fuck._ ”

“Maybe I should drive,” Adam suggests, still leaning over the gearshift. His voice is strained, like he’s trying too hard to sound fine, making him sound not fine at all. “Just pull over, and I can—”

Ronan interrupts by clearing his throat. “No,” he says forcefully. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Scout’s honor.” He flexes his fingers beneath Adam’s and tightens his hold on the steering wheel, just to prove his point and totally not to feel Adam’s hand readjust around Ronan’s knuckles. No, it has nothing to do with that at all. “Seriously, Parrish.”

Adam stares at him for a second, obviously mentally calculating their odds of surviving the night with Ronan behind the wheel, and then finally lets go of Ronan’s hand. He slumps back in his seat and runs his hand through his hair, the same hand that had just spent the last few minutes holding onto Ronan for dear life. His palm must be sweaty, not that Ronan had noticed, because his hair sticks up nearly straight where he touches it. It gives him a fresh, boyish look that directly contrasts with the tension in his shoulders and the frown tugging at his mouth.

“If we die, I’m gonna be _so_ pissed,” Adam says finally, leaning his temple against his closed window. Ronan only allows himself one furtive glance before returning to Responsible Driver Mode, staring out the windshield with an almost frightening intensity. Nearly getting himself killed doesn’t bother him much, but endangering Adam — that’s unforgivable. Ronan silently curses himself while he listens to Adam’s breathing slowly even out again.

But then Adam says something unexpected. “Well,” he begins, his voice tinged by amusement — and this alone confuses the hell out of Ronan, because just moments ago Adam had been giving him a death glare that would have sent anyone else running for the hills — “Nothing like a near death experience to distract someone from their personal problems for a few minutes.”

That actually leaves Ronan speechless for a second. It’s a pretty morbid thought, but it’s not like Ronan doesn’t get what he means. In fact, this sentiment is one that Ronan understands unreasonably well; after all, he practically invented it. That doesn’t stop him from saying, “Jesus Christ, Parrish, maybe you should get a therapist,” though.

Adam tenses up at that for a moment, but then he laughs. “You should talk,” he says with this private little smile that makes Ronan’s breath hitch, even though he really only sees it out of the corner of his eye. Adam reaches forward and wipes a streak of dust off the dashboard. Then, apropos of nothing, he says, “Everything’s gonna change when we find Glendower.”

The first thing Ronan thinks, ridiculously, is that Adam said _when._ Not _if_ , but _when_. Adam Parrish, who doesn’t believe in anything, whose skepticism rivals even that of Declan, believes they will complete their quest. _When we find Glendower_. Like it’s an inevitability. And maybe it is. Ronan certainly believes, has believed since the first time Gansey ever asked him _What do you know about Welsh kings?_ But it’s different coming from cautious, realistic Adam. It makes the entire thing just a bit more tangible.

“What do you mean?” Ronan asks instead of saying any of that. He’s coming up on the Now Leaving Henrietta sign at the edge of town but makes the split-second decision to turn and work his way back to St. Agnes, instead. It’s well past midnight now, and surely Parrish has something to do or somewhere to be at some ungodly hour the next morning. He needs his sleep, even if he doesn’t think so.

Adam hums contemplatively, like he hadn’t thought that far ahead even though he was the one to prompt the conversation. “I mean, haven’t you wondered what comes next? When we’re not spending every minute of every day looking for Glendower or talking about Glendower or researching Glendower? Isn’t he, like, the glue that holds us all together, like, as a group? What do we do when it’s over?”

Actually, that’s never occurred to Ronan. Not even once. He hates the way it makes him feel, deep in the pit of his stomach. Especially hates the way that Adam says it. Like he thinks that maybe, after everything, Gansey only keeps him around because he’s helpful in the quest. Like Adam thinks that once he’s outlived his usefulness, he’ll be cast aside. The implication angers Ronan; deep down, he knows that it isn’t Adam’s fault that he feels that way, not really. But on a surface level, he’s fucking furious. 

“When it’s over,” Ronan says icily, using every bit of self control he possesses to keep from bitching Adam out, “we’ll probably get some pizza and then plan our next adventure. Don’t overthink it, Parrish.”

Adam harrumphs, which is a noise Ronan thought people only made into books until that exact second. “But, I mean, this is the driving force of Gansey’s _life_.”

Ronan does not want to continue this conversation. “Sounds like a Gansey problem to me,” he says in a dismissive tone. He turns again, pulling onto St. Agnes’s street. “What personal problems did you need a near death experience to distract you from?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them, but he’s also pretty sure that he’s made the right movée. Nothing shuts Adam up like someone asking him about his life.

The look that Adam shoots him, although only seen in Ronan’s peripheral, is dark. “Smooth subject change, Lynch.” Well. Guess Ronan isn’t quite as subtle as he thinks. “Why’d you come to St. Agnes tonight?”

An impossible question for an impossible question. They’re at an impasse. “Touché,” says Ronan, although not unhappily. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel and eyes St. Agnes where it looms a few blocks ahead. It’s cliché and embarrassing, but Ronan doesn’t really want the night to end. He doesn’t want to go back to Monmouth and lay in bed with a pair of headphones on for the next six hours. He doesn’t want to trade grumpy, sporadic banter with Adam for eardrum-bursting electronica and half-formed nightmares. He’s still trying to figure out how to drag the night out a little longer when he pulls into the church parking lot and Adam solves that problem for him.

“Staying or leaving?” Adam asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt. He turns and raises an eyebrow at Ronan, who pretends to think about it for a second before twisting the key in the ignition. The engine dies. 

“Staying,” Ronan says, and he undoes his seatbelt and steps out of the car. 

It’s properly cold now, all of the heat that had been trapped in the asphalt from the sunny afternoon long gone. Ronan regrets not bringing a jacket, especially considering how cold Parrish’s apartment is going to be, but it’s too late now. He shivers slightly as he follows Adam up the stairs and into the small, dusty apartment, then kicks the door closed behind him and locks it as an afterthought.

“No bad dreams tonight,” says Adam, like it’s something that Ronan can control. Asshole. He toes off his sneakers and drapes his jacket over the back of his desk chair. “I’m not in the mood to deal with it right now.”

“Noted,” Ronan snorts as he sits on the floor beside the mattress. The wood is splintery and unforgiving, and it leeches the warmth right from Ronan’s hands where they’re pressed palm down to the boards. He barely represses a hiss and bends his legs at the knees, pressing them up against his chest and wrapping his arms around himself in what he hopes is a casual motion. Adam notices immediately.

“It’s pretty cold,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Ronan as he steps out of his jeans. Ronan immediately directs his gaze to the ceiling, studying the rafters while Adam pulls on a threadbare pair of flannel pajama pants. He pulls an old, stained sweatshirt on over his t-shirt and then narrows his eyes at Ronan’s outfit: a tight black t-shirt, tight black skinny jeans with deliberate tears at the knees, and heavy duty combat boots that look like they add an extra three inches to Ronan’s (already generous) height. They’re both quiet for a moment, and then Adam says flatly, “You’re sleeping like that?”

Ronan takes a moment to look down at himself, then exhales through his nose. “Well, when you say it like that,” he mumbles, kicking off his boots. They land loudly a few feet away from him. Adam hands him a pair of old sweatpants and then turns deliberately away while Ronan changes into them. The privacy is more of a formality than anything else, but Ronan appreciates it all the same. He doesn’t know what shade of pink his face would turn if Parrish were to see him naked, and he doesn’t want to know. When he lowers himself back onto the floor, Adam looks at him again, sharp and wary. “I don’t have another pillow,” he says bluntly.

“That’s fine,” says Ronan. He knows the drill; he’s spent more than one night on this godforsaken floor. He lays flat on his back and blinks up at the ceiling for a few seconds, listening to the intense silence that means Adam hasn’t climbed into bed yet.

It’s quiet for a few more moments, and then he sits up and cocks and eyebrow at Adam. “Something on your mind, Parrish?” he asks with measured disinterest. He knows he isn’t fooling anyone, least of all Adam, but old habits die hard. Adam just clenches his jaw, unamused.

“You’re gonna freeze,” he says, a beat too late. Like he had planned to say something else, but chickened out at the last second. He’s still just standing there awkwardly, like he’s the guest and it’s Ronan’s apartment. Ronan doesn’t care for that shit at all.

“Are you trying to discreetly tell me to get the fuck out, Parrish?” he asks. “If so, just say it. You aren’t going to hurt my precious little feelings.”

Adam’s eyebrows furrow at that, and his eyes widen in surprise. “What? No.” He sounds shocked enough to be truthful, but then again, he’s Adam Parrish. His skills of deception are well documented and nearly unparalleled. “If I wanted you to go, I’d just ask.” That’s probably true; he’s never had a problem with telling Ronan to fuck off before. Why start now? He sits down on his thin mattress, legs tucked under him, and picks at a piece of lint on one of his two blankets. Ronan’s ready to lie back and at least pretend to sleep now, but then Adam continues, “I was _going_ to say…” He shakes his head as he trails off. “Nevermind.”

Well, now Ronan’s intrigued. Adam is a very deliberate person: he would not begin a sentence without knowing where it was going. He had something to say and then he decided against it, which means that it was either offensive or vulnerable. Maybe both. And those are Ronan’s two favorite types of things to hear come out of Adam’s mouth. “Oh?” Ronan prompts, a lazy smirk capturing his lips. “Do continue, please.”

Adam opens his mouth and then closes it, his ears tingeing pink. “Nah,” he says, and he reaches behind himself to turn off his desk lamp. The room plunges into darkness, but Ronan only has to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust. There’s a dim, silvery glow coming through the window from the cloudless night, and it illuminates the apartment just enough for Ronan to be able to make out Adam’s silhouette as he slides beneath his blankets and rests his head on his pillow. The action seems to have a finality to it, so Ronan figures the conversation is over, and tempted as he is to push the issue, he also really wants Adam to get some rest for once in his life. So, uncharacteristically, he lets it go.

Adam, however, seems physically incapable of letting anything go. It’s one of the many things that Ronan lo— that Ronan admires about him. “I was going to say,” Adam says after several minutes, and he is trying so hard to sound indifferent that it’s just counterproductive, “you could sleep on the bed. If you want.”

It isn’t the first time that Adam’s made the offer, actually. The first several times that Ronan stayed over, they had entire arguments about it, Adam offering Ronan the bed or half the bed and Ronan turning him down every time. It feels… wrong, somehow, to sleep in the same space as Adam when he’s so... enamored with him. Not that he would try anything, of course — he wouldn’t so much as wink at Adam unless he knew that Adam felt the same way as him first — but it still feels gross. Adam doesn’t even know that Ronan is gay, let alone that Ronan likes him. At least, Ronan’s never told him.

But also… Adam isn’t stupid. He’s caught Ronan staring at him enough times by now to be able to put the pieces together. He’s made enough sly references and semi-flirtatious remarks for Ronan to know that he knows, and the jury is still out on whether or not Adam returns any of those feelings, but certainly he knows about Ronan’s crush and he’s inviting him to sleep on the bed anyway. For a second, the entire situation confuses Ronan to no end, but then he gets it.

Adam trusts him.

It shouldn’t be such a big surprise, not after everything they’ve been through together, but it is. Adam Parrish. Careful and doubtful and apprehensive Adam Parrish. Trusting Ronan Lynch. Aggressive and surly and ferocious Ronan Lynch. 

It is that idea that breaks Ronan.

“Okay,” he says slowly, pushing himself up onto the mattress. It sits right on the floor, so he doesn’t have to move far. He stretches out on top of the blankets, still cold but suddenly not minding it in the slightest, and then Adam holds up the edge of one blanket.

“You can get under the blanket,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. In any other situation, it probably would be, but Ronan has finally realized just how much of Adam Parrish he holds in his hands and he’s afraid that one wrong move will bring it all crashing down. He nods wordlessly and pushes himself up slightly, pulling the blankets over himself in one swift, graceless moment that nearly sends him rolling right off the mattress. Beside him, Adam snorts.

Ronan can’t help the laugh that escapes him, too. “Shut up, Parrish,” he says, but Adam just laughs louder, disproportional to the humor of the moment. Ronan gets it, though — it’s just late enough for that airy giddiness of sleeplessness to take over, making everything seem a thousand times funnier than it truly is. He laughs some more, too, sinking as deeply into the cheap mattress as he can without a spring piercing his shoulder, and Adam’s hair tickles the side of his face.

 _God,_ Ronan suddenly thinks, a prayer coming from nowhere. He can’t form a coherent thought, not with the scent of gasoline and green apple shampoo drifting toward him, so he just sends up the one desperate word that comes to him: _Please_.

“You know,” says Adam, his elbow brushing against Ronan’s bicep. Ronan can’t decide if it’s a conscious attempt at contact or not, so he says nothing. “You know, I hated you for a really long time.”

It should probably hurt, but it doesn’t. Maybe because Ronan always knew it. Maybe because Ronan kind of hated Adam too there for a while. Maybe nothing can hurt on a night like tonight, when Ronan is lying in bed beside Adam and still laughing about his own clumsiness. Whatever the case, he’s not questioning it. “You still do,” he says instead, only half-joking.

Adam laughs again, but this time it’s a touch more serious. “No, I don’t,” he says. His voice is steady and clear, like he doesn’t want Ronan to miss or mishear a single word. “I haven’t in a while now, and you know it.”

It’s not an admission of romantic feelings, not even close, but Ronan feels himself blushing anyway. He thanks God that it’s too dark for Adam to see. “And do I hate you?” he asks, far too gently.

Adam exhales once through his nose in what might be a sigh or might be another laugh. “No,” he says. The uncertainty in his voice is palpable; he tries again, firmer, before Ronan can interject. “No, you don’t hate me. Not most of the time, anyway.”

Ronan smiles into the gentle darkness. Adam, he thinks, gets it. Really gets it. It’s a fascinating, unfamiliar feeling to be understood, even just a bit. He thinks that he could get used to it, at least if it’s Adam doing the understanding. That could be nice.

“When we find Glendower,” Ronan hears himself saying, in answer to Adam’s earlier question that had made him so angry, “a lot of things are gonna change. But I know at least one thing that won’t.” He doesn’t know where this sudden ability to articulate feelings is coming from, but he tries not to think about it too hard, lest it disappear once again. 

There’s a slight rustling sound as Adam turns his head. “And what’s that?”

Ronan inhales deeply, giving an unintentional pause for dramatic effect. “I think you know.”

“Hm,” hums Adam. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Immediately, miraculously, Ronan drops off into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed!!! i have a billion WIPs i should have been working on instead of this, but what can you do? i hope you're all doing well and staying safe, and i hope my american friends out there are voting soon if you haven't already!
> 
> nobody:  
> me, writing a pynch fic: late night drives & bed sharing ♡
> 
> thank you for reading!! sending all of y'all lots of love ♡


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